The Duchess and Desperado by Laurie Grant

wasn’t like being with Morgan Calhoun, whose very presence seemed to demand much of her. Maybe too much.
    Wharton had meant nothing improper when he’d asked her to take the air with him, she was sure of it. But she’d seen the look in Calhoun’s eyes when he’d stopped them, and guessed how it had looked to him. Good Lord, what if he’d known she was secretly engaged? Would he have an even worse opinion of her for wanting to go out on the balcony with Wharton then?
    By God, she was a duchess, and not about to let a man dictate to her, especially a man whose salary she paid!
    Then she heard a soft clip-clopping, which grew louder, stopping just down the street.
    Calhoun peered around the broad trunk of the tree. “There’s the landau,” he said. “Come on.” He seized her hand and pulled her into a zigzagging run to the coach. Sarah would have stopped to explain to Ben, but Morgan thrust her almost roughly into the coach and followed her inside, calling out, “Get on back to the hotel! I’ll explain once we get the duchess back safe in her room.”
    Sarah held herself rigidly erect on the way back to the hotel, hoping Calhoun would see that she was furious with him, but he didn’t even seem to remember she was there. He kept lifting the curtain and peering out the window. Neither of them spoke.
    Back in her suite at the Grand Central, Sarah gave her dresser and her secretary a terse explanation of their early return without Lord Halston, watching out of the corner of her eye while Calhoun checked windows and looked behind curtains and under furniture.
    â€œWell, thank God for Mr. Calhoun, I say,” Celia muttered as she knelt before Sarah to examine the dirt-stained rent in the skirt of Sarah’s gown. “Better to have ruined a dress than to be shot at again. Isn’t that right, Mr. Alconbury?”
    But Sarah’s secretary, hovering at Sarah’s elbow, could only stare at her, white-faced.
    â€œCheer up, Donald,” Sarah said bracingly, patting him on the shoulder. She was touched that her secretary cared so much. “I’m unharmed, as you see. Do you suppose you could sit down with me and help me quickly compose a note for Ben to take to the governor when he goes back to pick up my uncle? I owe the poor man some explanation for disappearing from his reception! We shall have to tell him the truth, I suppose. Whatever will he think?”
    â€œWhy not tell him you’re leavin’ Denver tomorrow while you’re at it?” Morgan suggested.
    â€œBecause I shall not be leaving, Mr. Calhoun,” she told him. “Do me the favor of not bringing it up again.”
    Calhoun sighed and looked away.
    Donald managed to pull himself together, and within moments the missive was ready and the secretary was taking it down to Ben, who waited at the landau.
    â€œNow, your grace, why not let me help you out of that ruined thing and into your dressing gown?” Celia said practically. “You can wait in your bedroom for my lord’s return. I’ll have hot milk sent up from the kitchen.”
    Calhoun stopped his pacing long enough to growl, “You can go fetch it. I don’t want to wonder if it’s really a hotel employee knocking on this door.”
    â€œVery well, Mr. Calhoun,” Sarah’s dresser fairly snarled back at him. “I will be happy to ‘fetch’ it. But I will assist her grace first. Come, my lady.”
    The two women headed for Sarah’s bedroom, which lay directly off the main room, only to have Sarah stop in amazement at the cot that lay in front of its door. “What on earth—?”
    â€œ He directed it be put there,” Celia informed her archly with a nod toward Calhoun, who’d begun prowling about the room again. “He says he’s going to sleep there.”
    â€œ Is he? How very medieval,” Sarah murmured, then allowed herself to titter. She